


An Important Question

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Virgin Sherlock, mild parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: Sherlock asks John an important question, several, actually, and John is unsure how to answer it.A one-shot fic that was supposed to be a drabble, but turned into a short story.Unintentional lie when I said this was a one-shot fic. Everyone asked for more, so chapter 2 is up!





	1. Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So you think I’m attractive?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow critically._
> 
> _John buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath. Facing mortar and machine guns in Afghanistan had been less nerve-wracking than attempting to answer Sherlock’s question. “I didn’t say that,” he answered letting his hands fall._
> 
> _“You didn’t not say it,” Sherlock challenged. The look on Sherlock’s face was infuriating. Could he get away with murdering Sherlock Holmes? Maybe. He’d seen enough murders by now. Knew how the murderers got caught. Who would be left to solve the crime? Oh… right… Mycroft._

The morning sunlight was barely visible in the below ground flat he’d once shared with Mary. There was a stillness at this time of the morning before Rosie awoke and John shuffled off to work. John thought he had about 45 minutes of stillness left as he sipped his morning coffee and skimmed the paper for potential cases for Sherlock.  
  
The repairs to 221B were not complete yet, but as soon as they were, John planned to move back into Baker Street. He no longer felt right here. It was too white. Too sterile.  
  
And it was more than a little odd seeing Sherlock’s things where Mary’s had once been; Sherlock’s body wash, deodorant, shampoo… Sherlock’s toothbrush. It somehow felt like a betrayal to both Mary and Sherlock, like those two parts of his life were never supposed to have mixed.  
  
Sherlock had been leaning against the counter for the last 20 minutes, spoon raised half out of his bowl of cereal, staring off into space. After so many years, John was used to it, but the first time John had witnessed Sherlock slip unknowingly into his mind place, he’d been half convinced the man was having absence seizures.  
  
It wasn’t like this all of the time, of course. Sherlock entered his mind palace in various ways - frantically, in the heat of the moment, trying to save their lives; leisurely, searching for a bit of information; or like this, unknowingly, when he’d tripped into it because of a stray thought, playing through so many possible outcomes fantasy and reality had been merged. Sherlock’s memory and knowledge wasn’t just a file room or a house, like some people’s; he called it a palace only due to ego - he was more modest than people realized. John was convinced it was a universe, a multiverse perhaps. Sherlock contained a wealth of knowledge and imagination and experience so broad, he could sustain solar systems and galaxies in that extraordinary mind of his.  
  
John cleared his throat, hoping to snap Sherlock out of it. It worked.  
  
Sherlock shook his head and dropped the spoon into his bowl. “Important question… why does everyone think I’m a virgin?” he asked suddenly.  
  
John nearly choked on his coffee. Of all the things he could have imagined Sherlock might say, this was not one of them. “I’m sorry. I’m not following.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and set his bowl down, rolling his eyes a bit. “You rarely do, John. Mycroft, Irene, Eurus… they all assumed I never had sex. Why?”  
  
“Uhhh… what?” John looked up from the newspaper sincerely wondering what the hell Sherlock was talking about. He could see that whatever connection Sherlock had made was bothering him, but since he hadn’t actually been in his mind palace with him, he had no idea what that connection was. For John, the conversation was abrupt and off-putting.  
  
Sherlock sighed, sipped his tea, and continued his explanation as if John were a slightly dense child. “Mycroft asked me how I would know that sex doesn’t alarm me; Irene asked me if I’d ever had anyone; Eurus asked me if I’d had sex - granted, Eurus is greatly disturbed - but the point still stands, all of these people - some of the greatest minds of our generation - continuously deduce I’m a virgin. Why? Am I unattractive?”  
  
John flushed, folded the paper haphazardly and tossed it onto his table. Sherlock had finally lost it. “W-well… uh… no…”  
  
“You hesitated!” Sherlock exclaimed intensely. John flinched a bit and motioned for Sherlock to keep it down so that he wouldn’t wake Rosie just yet. “You think I’m unattractive,” he hissed. He crossed to the chair next to John and sat, watching him closely.  
  
He wanted to crawl under a rock. The only way this conversation could be more embarrassing is if he were actually having the talk with Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t imagine anyone having had that discussion. Likely they didn’t, which was how 20 some odd years after it should have happened, John was the one having to explain why people thought Sherlock was a virgin. “Uhhh… well… no. You’re not unattractive.”  
  
“So you think I’m attractive?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow critically.  
  
John buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath. Facing mortar and machine guns in Afghanistan had been less nerve-wracking than attempting to answer Sherlock’s question. “I didn’t say that,” he answered letting his hands fall.  
  
“You didn’t not say it,” Sherlock challenged. The look on Sherlock’s face was infuriating. Could he get away with murdering Sherlock Holmes? Maybe. He’d seen enough murders by now. Knew how the murderers got caught. Who would be left to solve the crime? Oh… right… Mycroft.  
  
John couldn’t do this. Not this early in the morning. Not before he’d finished his coffee. On that thought, he tipped the mug back and finish the coffee, wishing it had been a shot of tequila rather than a shot of caffeine. “Look… what does it matter, Sherlock? Whether you’re a virgin or not or what people think about it?”  
  
“I’m not!” Sherlock said quickly, though a flush had crept up his neck and to his face. “Janine, remember? Everyone knows about Janine!”  
  
John crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Sherlock closely. “You and Janine didn’t have sex.”  
  
“We did! 7 nights a week at 221B Baker Street! Every tabloid said so,” Sherlock protested, a bit too much. John already knew that was a lie, and he wasn’t about to let Sherlock continue perpetrating it with him. Maybe he had judged Janine too harshly; maybe Sherlock had wanted her to go to tabloids. He’d been upset about it when it happened, but maybe Sherlock was attempting to change his reputation. Interesting.  
  
“She lied. She told Mary she lied. You did a lot, but never actual sex,” John stated. “But again, Sherlock, what does it matter? You can be a virgin forever. It doesn’t matter you’re asexual.”  
  
Sherlock frowned deeply. “Not asexual,” he huffed.  
  
John raised an eyebrow. He was torn between pressing for more information (which really wasn’t his business) and letting it go. Sherlock, however, seemed more upset by this than he should. “You seem so above it all,” John answered finally and honestly. “Sex is beneath you, you know? Something that lesser mortals participate in. You seem to want no connections, no friends, no colleagues… so why would you want sex?”  
  
“That’s not true,” Sherlock stated. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over at John.  
  
“Hmmm? No. Of course it isn’t, but that’s what you show people, so they take you at your word,” John explained. John knew that in reality, Sherlock craved connections and sought out people who could see past his abrupt manner for what it was - a defence mechanism. People like Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and… well… himself.  
  
Sherlock shifted a bit, cleared his throat, “I… you know… I enjoyed the experiences I’ve had thus far… with Janine… and others…”  
  
“There have been others?” John asked, the surprise clear in his voice. Sherlock shot him a look which practically screamed ‘shut the hell up, John,’ and John complied.  
  
“The point is… I’m no longer comfortable being a virgin,” Sherlock said suddenly.  
  
John blinked. He wasn’t sure how else to react. What the hell was he supposed to say? Congratulations? “Right… well… good luck.” Good luck? Oh hell, that was not what he’d meant to say at all.  
  
Sherlock frowned at John and ran a hand nervously against his thigh. Were Sherlock’s palms sweating? “I was wondering… if… you’d consider being my first?”  
  
There were many times since meeting Sherlock Holmes that John Watson had been speechless, but none quite so profoundly as this. Time seemed to slow down, his mind replaying what Sherlock had said, multiplying the volume until it was a roar in his head.  
  
What was the appropriate response to something like this?  
  
Saying no outright could destroy Sherlock’s confidence. Saying yes was awkward because John wasn’t gay. It wasn’t like he could make Sherlock’s first time extremely pleasurable since he didn’t exactly have experience himself. It would be a lie to say he’d never thought about kissing Sherlock, but that’s as far as his desires went… kissing and maybe holding him close. But that wasn’t exactly sex, was it?  
  
The alert on his phone sounded and he looked at it in extreme relief. “Need to get Rosie’s formula ready… clinic duty,” he said clearing his throat and standing abruptly while silencing alert. He moved around the kitchen, grabbing the formula mix, and starting the water to boil.  
  
Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. He still wanted an answer.  
  
He tried to tell his friend he was flattered, tried to suggest that he would help Sherlock find someone else, tried to form a fully-functional sentence, but all that came out when he met Sherlock’s bright blue eyes was “‘M not gay!”  
  
“Interesting point, Watson,” Sherlock said. He moved to the cabinets and selected one of Rosie’s bottles handing it to John. “Analogously… neither am I.”  
  
“Huh?” John asked rather ineloquently as he took the bottle from Sherlock. He was concentrating on measuring now, even though this had become routine. The water had just begun to boil and he moved it off the eye so it could begin to cool. They had tried Rosie on room temperature formula, but the little girl had refused it. Warmed was the way to go.  
  
“Before you… I’ve only been attracted to women,” Sherlock stated simply in his rich baritone.  
  
“Women? Plural?” He flinched at his own question. That was a bit rude, wasn’t it?  
  
“Well… Irene Adler, as you’re aware… there were a couple of others in school - one girl in boarding school, another in university… Janine was not unattractive, and I should probably thank her for how she helped me realise my attraction to you.” John was confused, but then that wasn’t unusual when Sherlock was speaking. He wasn’t sure if he should ask for details or not. He decided not. “Accidentally called her John once,” Sherlock added without being prompted.

John couldn’t quite stop the laugh that escaped him. This conversation was ridiculous, asinine to the extreme, ludicrous even. They were straight… both of them… and yet, Sherlock Holmes was admitting to having called a woman by John’s name while snogging… or whatever they were doing… and was asking John to have sex with him. And John was not saying no.

He tested the water with his finger, a very unscientific way of measuring temperature, but at this point, John had gotten used to the timing of this and was relatively sure it wouldn’t be so hot as to scald him but would still be warm enough to mix easily. He nodded, poured the water into the bottle before lifting the bottle to eye level, subconsciously checking for the meniscus. He always did while cooking- too many years in labs in pre-med and med school. He capped the bottle and shook it, thankful for the distraction from Sherlock who was watching him expectantly.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he went to get Rosie, whom he found awake in her crib, watching her mobile intently. As his daughter had gotten older, she’d thankfully calmed down, started sleeping through the night. The routine he and Sherlock had established had seemed to help- breakfast, lunch, and dinner same time daily, bedtime same time daily; they had alerts on their phones for the timing so they couldn’t miss it. Mary never had been one for routine.

John changed her quickly, cooing and talking softly to her, and then it was feeding time. He moved back into the kitchen, checked the temperature of the formula (perfect), and offered the bottle to her. She began happily suckling as he settled back down at the table.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You haven’t said no,” he said.

He shook his head, pressed his lips together tight. He wasn’t going to address it. Sherlock couldn’t be serious. It was some sort of joke, some sort of gag Sherlock found funny that no one else in the universe would appreciate.

Sherlock growled and stormed from the room then, dressing gown billowing behind him like a great cape. He could hear Sherlock stomping around his room, slamming doors and drawers. Great. A temper tantrum. Soon enough he’d have to put up with those from Rosie and Sherlock. Sherlock emerged, dressed in a dark suit, deep violet silk shirt a stark contrast to his pale skin. “I’m going out,” he announced to the room, face set in a determined look.

“You can’t,” John stated, just as Rosie finished the bottle. “You’re watching Rosie today, remember?” He stood and crossed to Sherlock, handing his infant daughter to him, and thinking that maybe he ought to look into proper child care. It was just so expensive when they were this young… expensive at any age, but he’d need to take out a second mortgage to cover the expanse of an infant or toddler.

Sherlock’s harsh expression softened. “I’ll… take her to Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock offered. John didn’t respond, because he knew Mrs. Hudson was out of town and Molly and Lestrade were working. Sherlock was only leaving because he was stroppy, but now that he had Rosie, he’d settle down and stay put. If God forbid, Lestrade needed him, Lestrade would ask his wife to watch Rosie for a little bit while Sherlock checked out the crime scene. Instead of saying all of this, John went to grab his coat and keys. “And John… the question I asked… forget about it,” he added as John left.

“I just need some time. Have a good day, Sherlock,” he replied. Need some time? What? What did he say that for?

He didn’t forget about it. Try as he might. He thought about it all day long. First, on the tube and the bus, and then as he was supposed to be thinking about patient histories and medications lists, as he ate his lunch and chatted with his colleagues, as he rode the elevator and waited for the bus home. He thought about it instead of listening to podcasts or the news.

He hadn’t said no.

It was really crazy not to say no, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wasn’t sure why, but sex with Sherlock didn’t seem unappealing. It didn’t seem particularly appealing, either, to be fair. It was more… something he’d never thought about, never considered. It was a non-issue. Mostly because he wasn’t gay. Not really.

But this was _Sherlock_. He was closer to Sherlock than he’d been with anyone… even Mary. He loved Sherlock. Always rationalised to himself he _loved_ him but wasn’t _in love_ with him. There was a difference, yeah? You could love someone and not want to have sex with them. Brotherly love. But Watson knew brotherly love, and he felt different about Sherlock than he did Harry.

And now the thought was there, he wasn’t sure he didn’t want to have sex with Sherlock.

It was weird.

But then again, it really wasn’t. He’d never really been good at saying no to Sherlock Holmes. He’d always given him more leeway than he would have anyone else. He’d even forgiven Sherlock easier for jumping off the roof of Bart’s than he’d forgiven Mary about that whole clandestine operative who killed his best friend thing.

He’d somehow made his way through the day and back home to the flat, Sherlock’s question floating around in his consciousness the whole day. He shut the door and frowned a bit. It was too quiet.

“Hey,” Sherlock whispered as he rounded the corner. “Sorry, just got her down for a nap.”

John raised an eyebrow. It was late for a nap. “Did you have a case?” he asked.

“Small one,” Sherlock admitted. “Lestrade and I did a video chat, but it was around lunchtime, so Rosie got a bit off schedule. Went out and picked up takeaway for dinner. Sushi. Whenever you’re hungry.”

Sherlock moved to the kitchen and John followed. It was funny, at 221B they were rarely in the kitchen, spending most of their time in the sitting room together. Here, they rarely left the kitchen. Even with more space, they practically lived in one room. Sherlock poured a cup of tea and added some milk before passing it to John.

John accepted the tea gratefully and took a sip. “So… this morning… yes. Maybe. Eventually?” He’d sounded surer in his head. But then, he hadn’t meant to say yes outright. He’d meant to say they’d see where it went or some variation.

Sherlock spun on his heel so quickly he nearly lost his balance, but John watched him play it off as intentional as he settled to leaning back against the counter. “I’m sorry, what?”

He cleared his throat, and looked away from Sherlock’s gaze, shrugging slightly. “I mean… maybe. I can’t just… jump right into… gay sex.” He was blushing now, he could feel the crimson head spreading up his face. “But… you know… eventually… we might…” Sherlock’s blue eyes were wide now and John had been expecting a slew of words from him. Insults, maybe, backtracking. Instead, there was nothing, so John pressed on. “One condition, though.”

“Yes?” Sherlock’s voice was even, but John knew he was trying to hide something. Excitement? Intrigue? Wariness?

“You have to let me take you to dinner,” John said blatantly. He sipped his tea, waiting for Sherlock’s reaction.

“We always go to dinner, John,” Sherlock replied rolling his eyes.

“No, Sherlock. A _proper_ dinner,” he hinted at what he was getting at, wondering if Sherlock would get it. He couldn’t help but think of the texts Adler had read to him. This was the test, then, wasn’t it? Sherlock had admitted being attracted to Adler, but he’d never replied to her requests for dinner.

“A _proper dinner_?” Sherlock repeated, derision clear in his voice. He shoved his hands in his pockets, finally looked away from John. “You mean… a _date_?”

John cleared his throat, nodded, unable to hide his grin, but attempting to do so behind his mug. “A date, then.”

“I don’t… _date_.” Sherlock sounded like a toddler a hair’s breadth away from a temper tantrum. Lovely. Twice in one day. It wasn’t a record, at all, but Sherlock’s melodrama could be exhausting.

“Yeah. Well. Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.” He was a bit surprised at his own voice, how much he sounded like “Captain Watson” just then. He hadn’t meant it to be an order, but it certainly sounded that way.

The consulting detective frowned. He’d gotten himself a mug, too, but hadn’t quite gotten the tea poured into it when John had started the conversation. The mug was abandoned, forgotten now. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. We live together.”

“Yep. Still will,” John nodded. Did Sherlock think things would change? Was that his issue?

“We work together.”

“That too.”

“And you want to _date_?” It was clear from his tone what Sherlock thought of this idea. It was repulsive. It was beneath him. He did not want to do this.

“Mmmhmmm. More than once, probably.” John wasn’t going to back down. If he were going to have sex with Sherlock, it would be more than just sex… than just an experiment in sexuality for both of them. He would take his time. He would explore what this meant. He would know if there was more to this. And so would Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled. An honest to goodness scowl. “I don’t _date_.”

“I know.” The silence stretched thin, John sipped his tea. He waited, patiently. John could always wait patiently. He was practically a saint when it came to waiting… at least for Sherlock.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed. “But… if it doesn’t work… for either of us… we go back to the way things were. Forget about it. No hard… _feelings_.” The emphasis on feelings was full of disgust.

“Okay,” John replied, properly grinning now. There was no way he could hide it in his teacup any longer. He was going on a date with Sherlock Holmes. Guess all of those people had been right after all.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first date - in which John manages to surprise Sherlock (and himself) multiple times.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _“No. I didn’t look,” Sherlock answered quickly. He barely looked at John, his eyes watching the streets as they slid past. It was odd Sherlock hadn’t looked for cases, but John assumed that meant he’d been right; Sherlock was nervous. “Are… are we going to Roland Kerr Further Education College?” he asked just a beat later._
> 
> _John almost laughed. He’d forgotten he’d given the cabbie their destination before Sherlock had gotten into the cab, and so the other man was more in the dark than he’d intended to leave him. “You’ll see,” John said, though the answer was yes._
> 
> _“Why are we going there, John?”_
> 
> _“You’ll see,” John repeated, smiling to himself. He’d managed to surprise Sherlock Holmes. If they weren’t on a date, this would be going on the blog for sure. Sherlock withdrew his smartphone and John snatched it from his hand quickly. “No. No Googling. We’re almost there. Let me surprise you, just this once.”_

It was almost embarrassing the amount of time that passed between Sherlock asking to have sex with him and the day of the actual date. John’s instinct had been to schedule it as quickly as possible, but there had been a case, then another and another. Sherlock had always been adamant about not being distracted from the work, and John understood that. After all, people’s lives were in the balance. Murderers, robbers, and even kidnappers were on the loose. They had to be stopped. 

Then the renovations and repairs to Baker Street were complete and they were helping Mrs. Hudson move back in and moving and settling themselves in. But now that things had settled, Sherlock was getting _bored_ and that just wouldn’t do. 

It was nearly midnight, Rosie was upstairs sleeping, and John (who didn’t have clinic hours the next day) was watching crap telly on mute while Sherlock played the violin. It was an original piece, John was relatively sure, but one he’d heard before, so it was comforting in some way. 

“I need a case!” Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. He kept playing, though, and John wasn’t sure if he was aware he’d spoken aloud. 

“That… or… we could go out,” John offered quietly. He glanced from the TV to Sherlock, gauging his reaction. 

“Not now, John. It’s late,” he replied without hesitation and with no pause in his playing. Sherlock Holmes was one of the few people who could actually multitask. Lots of people claimed to be capable, but a study had shown that less 2% of the population could actually multitask. Sherlock would be part of that 2%, wouldn’t he? 

“Of course not now. Rosie’s asleep upstairs. We can’t just leave her,” John grumbled. “I meant… we should schedule our date.” 

Sherlock stopped playing abruptly in the middle of the musical phrase. There was a shift, almost imperceptible, his bow rising just enough off the strings so that he would not unintentionally make a noise. “I thought you had forgotten,” he whispered. 

“No. Not at all. We were busy,” John replied. He shifted in his chair as Sherlock turned to look at him. Sometimes the consulting detective’s scrutiny made John uncomfortable; John knew every time Sherlock looked at him, he’d see things, no matter how small, that maybe John wasn’t aware of himself. To most people, they would be indiscernible, but to Sherlock, he was an open book. It was both thrilling and terrifying. There was so much he didn’t have to say because Sherlock just knew; he only worried there were things he was saying he didn’t mean to. 

The violinist carefully set down his instrument on the desk and the silence stretched out. John wondered if maybe Sherlock had changed his mind but just didn’t want to say. “When?” 

“Tomorrow night? Around 6? If you have no plans,” John offered. “Mrs. Hudson can keep Rosie…” 

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied with a curt nod and without another word he quickly fled the room. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John called after his retreating form. 

“I’m fine! It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s all fine,” the consulting detective called. Watson couldn’t help but wonder if he had said something wrong. He also couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock had meant to quote him from the first day they met.

* * *

The next day time seemed to drag forward with all the speed of a tortoise for John. It was a relatively mundane day, nothing worth noting at first. It took hours for him to realise Sherlock had been avoiding him. 

His first hint should have been when Sherlock had passed on pancakes with fresh lemon juice and sugar and instead chose dry toast and tea for breakfast. He’d steadfastly avoided looking Watson in the eye and completely ignored the other man speaking with him. His second hint should have come when Sherlock had come out of his room, seen John playing with Rosie in the floor of the sitting room and immediately turned around and re-entered his room. He’d barely made it more than a step or two. If the date hadn’t been scheduled, John would have thought Sherlock was upset with him. However, with the date looming at the end of the day, John assumed Sherlock was simply nervous… or he was trying to build anticipation by them having as little contact as possible. 

He took Rosie to Mrs. Hudson a bit early, so he could take his time showering and getting dressed. He wasn’t overly stressed out about making a good impression (because Sherlock had literally seen him at his worst), but he did dress nicely in a light blue button-up shirt and navy slacks rather than his ever-present khakis. He made sure to be downstairs precisely at 6 pm, but when Sherlock didn’t emerge from his bedroom, John resorted to knocking on the door to his bedroom. 

Sherlock answered just a moment later, raising an eyebrow at John. “Yes?” 

“It’s 6,” John said looking at his watch and glancing back up. 

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock replied. He opened the door wider and slipped into the hall next to John. He seemed to have spent some time trying to tame his wild curls, but otherwise looked much the same as he always did. He wore a dark suit and a deep purple shirt which was almost too small. Still, it had always been one of John’s favourites on the other man and John briefly wondered if Sherlock had always known that. He must have, and that must have been why he’d chosen it. “Am I dressed alright? Wasn’t sure what your plans were…” 

John inhaled sharply and nodded. “Yeah, great. You look great.” He’d just been broken from an internal monologue about how it wasn’t fair Sherlock was half a foot taller than him, gorgeous, and absolutely brilliant. How was it possible the man was tall, dark, handsome and a bloody genius? What sort of genetic lottery had he won? “We should… we should get going, so we’re not late.” 

Just a few moments later, they were in a cab and headed across London, the cabbie taking a twist and turn of roads. Sherlock had donned his coat but had left the collar down, John suspected because he knew it bothered John when he turned it up. It was a bit too quiet, but John couldn’t think of what to say. Normally, he’d engage in small talk, ask his date how their day had gone, but that wasn’t really necessary, and Sherlock hated small talk. He chewed on the inside of his cheek nervously, before he finally spoke, “find any cases today?” 

“No. I didn’t look,” Sherlock answered quickly. He barely looked at John, his eyes watching the streets as they slid past. It was odd Sherlock hadn’t looked for cases, but John assumed that meant he’d been right; Sherlock was nervous. “Are… are we going to Roland Kerr Further Education College?” he asked just a beat later. 

John almost laughed. He’d forgotten he’d given the cabbie their destination before Sherlock had gotten into the cab, and so the other man was more in the dark than he’d intended to leave him. “You’ll see,” John said, though the answer was yes. 

“Why are we going there, John?” 

“You’ll see,” John repeated, smiling to himself. He’d managed to surprise Sherlock Holmes. If they weren’t on a date, this would be going on the blog for sure. Sherlock withdrew his smartphone and John snatched it from his hand quickly. “No. No Googling. We’re almost there. Let me surprise you, just this once.” 

Sherlock grimaced and took his phone back, but shoved it back into his coat pocket, indicating his intention to comply. “I don’t like surprises. The last time I was here…” 

“I promise, there are no serial killers and no unidentified shooters who will save your life from said serial killers,” John stated simply. 

“Shame. That would have been an intriguing date,” Sherlock fired back. 

“I decided to save the attempted murder for our second date - with the Chinese circus.” Sherlock met his eyes and laughed then. How could they be laughing about that now? Poor Sarah had nearly been murdered… on a first date. In the history of first dates, that had to have been the worst. 

The cab pulled up to the college auditorium and Sherlock left the cab as John paid. Normally, John would be complaining, but since he’d asked Sherlock on the date, he’d expected to be doing the paying. There were a handful of people heading into the building and John motioned for Sherlock to follow him. “Please tell me we’re not here for some sort of musical,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“What? Of course, we’re here for Les Mis,” John joked. 

Sherlock hesitated but followed him up the steps. “You’re not cute,” Sherlock snapped. John had remembered how Sherlock had refused to accompany his parents to Les Mis and had assumed the other man hated the musical. Truth be told, John wasn’t a huge fan of musicals, though there were a few exceptions to that rule. 

“Look, I know you’re going to be the gorgeous one of the relationship, Sherlock, you don’t have to rub it in,” John teased as he opened the door for the other man. 

The consulting detective stopped abruptly and glowered at John. “Don’t say things like that,” he said suddenly. 

“Like what?” John asked. The confusion was clear on his face. He’d just been joking and was now concerned that Sherlock didn’t want a relationship based on his reaction. Of course, John wasn’t sure they could call what they were working toward a relationship. 

“You… you’re not unattractive, and… well… I just think it’s foolish to compare us that way. I’m not gorgeous and you’re not ugly, so it’s… just don’t,” Sherlock stumbled over the words. John had never seen him be quite so unsure of what he was trying to say. The man was almost always precisely articulate, but in spite of his stumbling, it was clear to John that Sherlock didn’t like even the implied self-deprecation of his joke. Sherlock cleared his throat and continued. “What I’m trying to say, John, is I find you attractive and that should be all that matters; what we think of one another, not what others think of us.” 

There were several things which took John off-guard. First, the fact Sherlock had said aloud and in public, he found John attractive. Next, he’d referred to them as “us” as if they were already more than just friends. Last, he’d made it clear he didn’t care what other people thought. It made John think about what Sherlock had asked him for… and about how they might get there. The urge to kiss Sherlock was suddenly almost overwhelming. John felt the heat rising from his neck to his ears and cheeks. 

“Right… well… I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied. He ushered Sherlock through the door, letting his hand briefly rest on the small of the other man’s back as he passed through. The jolt of electricity that passed through him was familiar… the telltale sign of attraction. It was new and exciting. 

Once inside, John could no longer hide why they were there as posters advertising the event were displayed prominently. John approached the window and purchased two tickets. “You brought me to a string quartet?” Sherlock questioned. John wordlessly handed Sherlock a ticket. “John, you brought me to a string quartet performing at the college where a serial killer tried to kill me? Where you killed him for me?” 

John shrugged. “You like string quartets, now, hand the usher your ticket and stop gawking at me as if I’ve done something horrible.” 

Sherlock did as he was instructed and John followed behind him. The auditorium was small, but it wasn’t full, either, even though the concert was set to start in just a few minutes. The seating was open, and Sherlock found a seat nearly in the dead center of the auditorium and claimed it, settling in much the same way he did in his favorite chair - long limbs splayed haphazardly. 

John sat next to him with a grin on his face. Even though Sherlock seemed off-put, he could tell it was only because he’d manage to actually surprise the other man. “This is okay, right?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded in reply before answering quietly, “I just expected dinner.” 

“Well, just dinner is boring,” John protested, “and most dates are something more than just dinner.” The consulting detective fell quiet, and John couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something wrong by assuming when Sherlock had agreed to a date, he’d understood what that entailed. John hoped not, because he’d been looking forward to this the entire day. “Sherlock, I-“ 

The lights blinked for a few pulses and Sherlock hushed him quickly. “Shh… it’s starting, John.” 

A few moments later the musicians entered, taking their seats. There was no introduction, no formal indication they were going to start, but suddenly dramatic music filled the chamber. John found himself watching Sherlock intently, at first he seemed detached from the music, but within just a moment his lips were parted as he watched intently. He seemed to visibly relax, whatever tension he felt melting away, in spite of the almost frantic music. 

John couldn’t stop himself from thinking Sherlock looked absolutely beautiful when he was relaxed and open. Sherlock was always gorgeous, but there was something about it that was always hard-edged as if perhaps he was aware he was attractive and was tired of it. Or maybe it was just the added air of “tortured genius” on top of his normal look. But when he relaxed, which wasn’t often, it was as if all the masks and layers of wariness just peeled away, allowing him to just exist and be beautiful. That urge to kiss him was welling up again, but John shoved it down.

It was nearly halfway through the first movement before John realized the fingers of Sherlock’s left hand were moving ever so slightly in time with the first violin part. John wanted to laugh. Of course, Sherlock would have Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” memorized. John settled back against his chair, finally content that Sherlock was enjoying himself. 

Just over 30 minutes later, the music concluded and the auditorium filled with applause. The first violinist stepped up to a single microphone and spoke softly. “Thank you very much for your attention and your applause. This concludes our first piece. That was Schubert’s ‘Death and the Maiden’. We’ll now take a 10-minute intermission. When we return we will be performing Mozart’s Serenade in G.”

The lights came up and very few people left their seats. Sherlock shifted slightly in his to look at John. “We should leave now, while we still can,” he said.

“Why?” John asked confused. “Are you not enjoying it?”

“Oh, I am, but the Mozart’s pretentious,” Sherlock replied with a grin.

“Mozart’s pretentious, but Schubert isn’t?” John asked raising an eyebrow.

“Precisely.”

“Well, as long as we’re on the same page,” he teased. However, Sherlock didn’t actually begin to move, so John didn’t either. “Seriously, though, are you having fun?”

“I’m enjoying it. Fun is a bit of a strong description,” Sherlock answered. “This wasn’t really what I expected for a date.”

“What did you expect?” John asked.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t this,” Sherlock answered.

“Do you want any refreshments. I’m sure they won’t allow anything in here, but we could get something to drink if you want,” John offered.

“We _are_ getting dinner right? If so, we have less than half an hour left if they’re playing all four movements, including the rest of intermission. I think I can wait.”

“Yes,” John said without hesitation. “I have something planned.” Although he knew Sherlock’s mind palace was vast and impressive, it always shocked John just how much information Sherlock had at his beck and call. Who else would be able to confidently tell you exactly how long Mozart’s Serenade in G Major was? Maybe Mycroft or Eurus, but no normal person, that was for certain.

The silence stretched out between them again, and John was surprised at how this didn’t make him nervous. On a normal first date, he would have been stumbling for topics of conversation, trying to make sure his date was engaged and felt as if he were interested. Long stretches of silence normally would have made him uncomfortable, concerned that his date wasn’t actually interested. With Sherlock, small talk was unnecessary. It had never been necessary.

The lights flickered, signaling the end of intermission and those few people not in their seats took them quickly. As soon as the first notes sounded, John understood what Sherlock had meant by pretentious. The opening movement was used so much in television and movies - even cartoons - even he could have hummed along. The fingers of Sherlock’s left hand still moved along and John was still watching Sherlock more intently than the violinist on stage.

It was the second movement, however, that caused an urge to touch Sherlock to become almost unbearable. It was dark in here, and the anonymity the darkness provided was emboldening. Without much thought, John slid his hand to Sherlock’s knee. For a moment, all of Sherlock’s movement stopped and he stiffened under John’s hand. John’s eyes nervously flitted to Sherlock’s face, his eyes were closed, lips parted slightly. He didn’t appear to be breathing. John leaned close and whispered, “is this okay?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded once, curtly. John wasn’t sure it actually was okay, not until Sherlock’s hand wound around to the back of his arm, stroked it gently, and then began picking up acting out the part of the first violin. 

He inhaled sharply, suddenly understanding Sherlock’s reaction. His heart was hammering in his chest, nearly drowning out the sound of the string quartet. The touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm sent an electric fire through him and it was then he realised… yes. He wanted this. He wanted Sherlock. John swallowed hard, wondering how long he’d wanted this and ignored it, how many years he’d wasted. The tap of Sherlock’s fingers on his arm brought him out of his thoughts and back to the here and now. 

The last few movements seemed to fly by, John focusing far too much time on the gentle tap and stroke of Sherlock’s fingers against his skin, and not enough on the music itself. Soon, the lights were coming up, but Sherlock’s fingers were still resting on his forearm and his hand still rested on his knee. They sat there for a moment before Sherlock finally turned to look at him, gray eyes filled with something John wasn’t quite used to seeing. Was this desire? Or something else?

“You said there would be dinner,” Sherlock stated after a moment. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” John replied, but both of them seemed reluctant to remove. Slowly, John and Sherlock untangled themselves and made their way to the main road where Sherlock flagged a cab for them. “51 Pimlico Rd,” he said, providing the waiter the address rather than the name to the restaurant. He still wanted as much of a surprise as possible, and although Sherlock had a street map of London memorized, he didn’t know what was located at every address.

In around 10 minutes they were at the restaurant. John paid for the cab and joined Sherlock as he stared up at the building. “Really? Hunan London? Chinese?” he asked raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Chinese,” John answered patiently.

“We could have gone to the Chinese on Baker Street,” Sherlock said after a moment.

“Could’ve, but we didn’t,” he said opening the door for Sherlock and ushering the other man inside. He entered quickly behind Sherlock and approached the receptionist, letting her know he had a reservation. They were taken back and seated quickly. 

Unlike most places, Hunan London did not have menus. As their waiter checked in with them, he asked them a few questions about their food preferences (Sherlock likes spicy over sweet with no restrictions, and John was okay with some spice but preferred sweet… and no coconut), and then disappeared to share with the kitchen. The place was ridiculously expensive, but according to John’s research was one of the best places to get authentic Chinese. He also liked the idea of not having to worry about what to order.

As the waiter left, though, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you really attempt to recreate our first day together?” he asked.

John shrugged and sipped his water. “A little. I thought it would be nice, you know? A tribute to how we met, but… a new take on it.”

“I don’t want a new take on it,” Sherlock huffed. Oh. Great. They were at this part of the evening. Where Sherlock would get stroppy and throw a temper tantrum even though everything had gotten great. He would shut down and lash out to make John feel inferior and ruin things. “I liked our old take on it.”

“You liked nearly dying?” John asked and then flinched. The accusation that hung in the air was a bit heavy, especially with the truth being-

“No, _you_ like nearly dying,” Sherlock hissed. He was at least attempting to keep his voice down, which John appreciated, but John wished they weren’t fighting at all. He silently wished he’d chosen a different restaurant, one with menus so that he could pretend to ignore Sherlock while choosing what to eat.

He sighed, “Sherlock, I’m not erasing our history or anything. I just thought… when I met you, my life changed… for the better. I thought this… might be another change for the better, and I thought it would be nice to experience what might have been… if we’d both been open to something other than solving mysteries and simply sharing a flat.”

Sherlock laughed derisively. “Sentimental bull-”

“I have your hot tea,” the waiter interrupted, setting down a pot between them and filling each of their cups.

“Thank you,” John said smiling up at him. As the waiter left John added the sugar to his cup and leaned forward to whisper to Sherlock, “that’s what dates are, Sherlock. Sentimental bullshit. But it’s nice sentimental bullshit. You enjoyed the concert. You’ll enjoy dinner. Stop trying to pick a fight just because you don’t know what to talk about.”

Sherlock added some sugar to his tea and stirred, his lips pressed firmly together. “I did… enjoy the concert,” he said, as a peace offering. “It was… a nice surprise.”

“Sherlock, nothing is changing with us that you don’t want to change,” John answered. He saw Sherlock’s peace offering for what it was, but he wasn’t going to let him divert the conversation. “I have no expectations, but tonight has made me aware that although I value your friendship… this could easily be… more. If you want it, that is.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were slightly glassy, a sign he’d retreated, at least partially, into his mind palace. He sipped the tea, which was far too hot and tried not to act like it was, but John could tell by the way he hissed inwardly and then breathed softly that it was far too hot. He tried not to laugh. “I’m not sure, what I want,” Sherlock said after a moment. “But I’d like to try.”

“That’s it, then, isn’t it? All anyone does when they date; they’re trying to see what they want, what could be… if there’s something else there. And if there isn’t Sherlock, we’ve been through so much already. It won’t be the end for us,” John explained. He took a drink of his water and then tested his tea by touching the teacup. Still too hot.

The consulting detective nodded in agreement and set his tea down. “Okay,” he agreed softly. 

Their starters appeared at the table a few seconds later, and they ate in a comfortable silence. “So… the sentimental part,” John said when he could no longer stand the silence. “As I said before, our first night together was… unforgettable,” he’d wanted to say nice, but who says that the day they killed a man was nice? It wasn’t quite what he was going for. “You were kind of irresistible. I couldn’t have walked away if I’d wanted to.”

“But you didn’t want to,” Sherlock replied. He was staring at the starter he was eating, not quite meeting John’s eyes. John knew this kind of talk would make Sherlock uncomfortable, but he felt like there were things that needed to be said between them, even if they were only said once. “I liked you from the moment you called me extraordinary. I’m not used to that reaction, really. You’ve seen it, now. Didn’t believe me, then, but most people… don’t like me knowing things about them. You delighted in it. It… made me want to never lose you.”

That was a bit too much like Sherlock admitting to having feelings for John. John found that his hand was shaking, not the old tremor from when he was bored and suffering from PTSD, but a new nervousness that had settled over him, something causing his heart to hammer in his chest. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, watching him closely, and he knew what Sherlock must be seeing, deducing. Although, this was the realm of the emotional, and Sherlock’s deductions could be wrong.

It was John’s turn to avoid answering immediately, and he sipped his tea, thankful it had had time to cool. It was red oolong, smooth and naturally sweet, sweeter now that he’d added sugar. “Yeah… I did that once… it wasn’t fun,” John said and immediately flinched. He hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“John, I-”

“No. No, we’re past that. No need to rehash. I meant to say, I understand the sentiment,” he cleared his throat and wished they were further along in this dating things. That he had clear boundaries about when and how he could touch Sherlock. He wished he knew if he could reach for his hand to hold it if he could ever reach for his hand. Would that _always_ be inappropriate? He’d already noticed several people trying to “discretely” snap pictures of them. It was the hazard of his blog being so popular… of Sherlock being so recognisable.

He settled for shifting slightly, stretching out a leg, so that his knee could rest gently against Sherlock’s leg. The tablecloth would hide it, and he hoped Sherlock would interpret it the correct way.

Sherlock smiled at him a bit. “Are you saying I’m sentimental?” he intoned in his deep baritone.

“In your own way,” John replied with a grin. Their entrees arrived a moment later, and then eventually, so did dessert. After the momentary attempt at fighting that John staved off, they fell into easy conversation, reliving some of their more ridiculous moments together. It was an easy conversation, not that they had anything else, really. They were interrupted a couple of times by fans asking for pictures with Sherlock; John silently mused this would likely be the cost of dating someone who was famous… no, someone he’d made famous. 

It was so much like their normal banter and nights out, John almost forgot they were on a date. Almost. The ride back to Baker Street was too fast, and John felt like this was coming to an end. True, it was just a beginning (he hoped), but the magic of the night that had helped him see Sherlock differently was starting to come to a close. 

They climbed the stairs to their flat slowly, almost reluctantly. Sherlock reached for the doorknob and John grabbed his hand. “Wait,” he said softly. His thumb rubbed the back of Sherlock’s hand almost absently. “Can I kiss you?”

“You want to kiss me?” Sherlock asked. “Here?”

John looked around at the top of the stairs and shrugged. “Yeah. Front door. Seems appropriate. I have to collect Rosie from Mrs. Hudson, so the date is pretty much over.”

“Mrs. Hudson might see.”

He cleared his throat and shrugged a bit. “Unlikely.”

“We live together, and you want to kiss me at our door?” Sherlock’s statement dripped with sarcasm, and barely concealed derision.

John sighed, and looked up at Sherlock, frowning a bit at him. “Is there a problem with that?”

“A bit cliche, isn’t it? We could go inside… and do a lot more than kiss,” Sherlock said softly.

“We could, but… I need to get Rosie, and… I want to take this slow. See how it goes,” John whispered. He was getting a bit tired of Sherlock’s protests, so he pulled the other man close, his arm sliding around his waist. Sherlock stiffened a bit before relaxing into his embrace. John’s own heart was beating wildly in anticipation, his own breath caught.

He reached for Sherlock with his right hand, thumb stroking his high and prominent cheekbone gently as he pulled him down toward him. But he didn’t kiss Sherlock yet, their lips were barely ghosting one another as he whispered, “for the last damn time, Sherlock, can I kiss you?”

The answer was barely spoken. Half moan, half whisper, a mere shudder which, if all of John’s senses hadn’t been heightened by adrenaline, he would have missed. “Yes.”

The kiss started soft and featherlight, but it quickly deepened. Sherlock swayed against him and into him, inhaling deeply through his nose as he parted his lips. The thrill which had run through John’s body earlier was back, his heart was pounding in his ears. Sherlock swayed a bit on his feet again, leaning into the kiss; he surprised John when his tongue parted John’s lips and tentatively entered his mouth.

Something snapped in John, then, and both hands went to either side of Sherlock’s face. He was kissing him deeper, fervently, with an urgent need that shocked even him. Sherlock stumbled back, crumpled against the wall, his hands tangled in John’s sandy hair. Nothing existed but the two of them. A delicious heat spread quickly through John’s body. He wasn’t sure which one of them moaned softly or if it were both of them, but the slightly undignified sound brought John back to the present, aware suddenly they were still in the stairwell.

He broke the kiss reluctantly. They were both panting, and his eyes lingered closed until he forced them open. “Wow,” he whispered softly. How could he have ever questioned if he’d actually be attracted to Sherlock? How could he ever question if this could work? His entire body hummed with attraction, with want, with need.

“Indeed,” Sherlock responded breathlessly. He leaned forward to kiss John again, and John pulled back slightly. If he didn’t stop this now, he’d do something they weren’t ready for yet. Like, spend the night with Sherlock… in Sherlock’s bed… while his daughter stayed with Mrs. Hudson.

“I had a really good time,” John said, putting up a hand on Sherlock’s kiss to prevent him from coming close again. It wasn’t a good compromise. His hand felt like it was burning with heat. “We’re doing this again, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled a bit. His normally fair skin was slightly rosy and John wasn’t sure if it was the faint hint of desire on his skin or if Sherlock was actually blushing. “Another date? Or another kiss?”

“Both,” John answered grinning.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, finally, swaying forward to kiss him again.

John turned his head and pushed him back slowly, willing his breath to even and his body to cooperate by not beginning to proudly display his attraction. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he said softly, but resolutely.

“Goodnight?” Sherlock asked confusion in his voice. 

“I have to collect Rosie… but soon,” he answered the question that Sherlock was asking. He reluctantly pulled away from Sherlock’s body and righted himself. He straightened his clothes, smoothed down his rumpled hair, and hoped the signs of desire weren’t written as clearly on his features as he felt like they were. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he repeated again. With more conviction than he felt, he made his way back down the stairs and waited until he heard the door to their flat open and close before he knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

He was smiling broadly as he waited for her to open the door. He really could not have hoped for a better first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the music I wrote about you can listen to it [here](https://music.amazon.com/user-playlists/92195a1fc94b41faa99ff25aad527a22sune?ref=dm_sh_9b7a-cc46-dmcp-a6dc-76324&musicTerritory=US&marketplaceId=ATVPDKIKX0DER) if you have Amazon Prime/Amazon Music. If not, click [here](https://www.dropbox.com/sh/q3fcpld6cgre7fm/AADwR_qO_2s8X9e3chCP51Bva?dl=0) to download the MP3s.


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